Those Blizzard Months
by MidnightEverlark
Summary: Winter has arrived and Katniss and Peeta are beginning to discover intimacy. With a blizzard raging outside and fireplaces blazing inside, our two young lovers have ample opportunity to explore each other. As their relationship develops, secrets come out, the past is faced and, outside, the winter storm ensures their privacy. What could go wrong? Post-MJ. Lemony.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! Thank you for clicking on this story.**

_**Warning: This story is rated M for a reason. Reader discretion advised.**  
_

**No lemons in this chapter (I know, I know, I'm sorry) but it ****_will_**** earn its M rating in Ch 2.**

**Thanks for reading! Enjoy!**

**Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot. So no suing, please.**

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The knee-length shirt I sleep in poses no problem to Peeta's wandering fingers. They slither down my side, leaving goose bumps in their wake, until they reach the hem of the cotton tunic. My eyes open wide of their own accord, fixing themselves on the dim outline of the window across the room. Tonight, while the blizzard rages silver outside, it is closed. The wind blasts against the side of the house, hissing and howling like a mutt, and I know that any noise we make will not escape the confines of our bedroom. A conversation held out loud will not be overheard by Haymitch, as it might be in summertime. However, as Peeta draws lazy circles on the exposed skin of my lower thigh, it dawns on me that a heart-to-heart may not be what he has in mind.

I think back to the past months as a particularly violent surge of wind sends a loose shingle rattling. Peeta's hand stills and I close my eyes.

"Katniss?" he murmurs, thumb running over the prominent bones of my knee. "Are you awake?"

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In the spring, we kissed for the first time since the Capitol. In the half year since then, the kisses have changed. But very slowly. In the week that ladybugs swarmed over the meadow, Peeta shifted his hands from my waist to my hips. Some weeks after that, I took to pushing my fingers through his hair as our lips tugged at each other. By midsummer, his hands found their way to the strip of skin between my pants and shirt, gently massaging the muscles of my back, and soon after, he developed a habit of kissing my neck as we got ready for bed. A gasp here, a flick of the tongue there. He moved in with me, officially, at the tail end of summer, though he had been practically living in my house for much longer. Chestnuts ripened and fell from the trees, and it was there, in the forest, that Peeta's episode hit.

We were wandering between the trees, not twenty yards from the fence, baskets swinging from our elbows. The chestnuts, like furry, green fruits, lay on the ground along with crunching leaves. We wore protective gloves, leather ones left over from my father's days in the woods, as we stooped to gather the spiny pods. I had just peeled one open, revealing the nuts inside. Dark, round and shiny, they gleamed within their pithy hulls. I grinned up at Peeta, only to realize that Peeta was no longer there.

My head snapped around, sending the tendons in my neck throbbing. He had been by my side seconds ago.

"Peeta?"

I took a step one way, then the other, unable to choose a direction in my mounting panic. My voice rose to a breathy cry.

"Peeta?"

The basket of chestnuts fell to the ground, forgotten, and I slipped on the round, fruit-like husks as I stumbled forward. I scanned the leaves for a trail, a broken twig, anything to let me know where he went. Nothing.

By some cruel trick of fate, the steel-gray clouds above chose that moment to send forth a single, deep clap of thunder. In my frenzy, I didn't see the lightning flash, didn't hear the following growls of thunder. I registered the sound as a cannon.

I shrieked his name, abandoning logic in favor of sprinting in the direction from which we'd come. Memories washed over me like cold sprays of seawater, steadily wearing away at my control. _A cannon, then Peeta with hands full of nightlock. A cannon, and then bursts of bright color across the sky as a claw descends over me. A cannon and Peeta dead, Peeta mangled, Peeta's throat ripped out by a mutt with my eyes…_

I slammed into something, maybe a tree trunk, and sprawled on the ground. My chest froze up and I struggled to breathe. In the seconds that I lay there, staring up at the clouds, waiting for my lungs to expand again, a noise drew my attention to the left. I quickly disregarded it as the muscles of my chest relaxed and allowed me to suck in a spicy lungful of Autumn air, but as I panted, the noise came again. I turned my head slowly, still bleary from my impact with the tree, and it took a moment for my eyes to focus on the shape some yards away. As soon as they did, I was on all fours and lurching to my feet, then falling to my knees again as soon as I reached my destination.

"Peeta?"

His hands were clenched in his hair, face half-hidden behind his arms. He rocked on the forest floor, heels digging into the soil, knees drawn up to his chest. I knew the reason without having to ask. Thanks to time and to Dr. Aurelius's counseling, his episodes were less frequent, but I had seen enough to recognize the signs. I forced myself to take three deep breaths, letting them out slowly, before I reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. He tensed, and his quick breaths changed tempo, but otherwise he didn't move. I shifted my hand to his back and began to rub in slow, gentle circles. This routine was familiar. When a shiny memory overwhelmed him and he held on to the nearest object to keep himself in the present, I would rub his back and murmur comfortingly until it passed. I almost prided myself on being able to bring him back from the brink so quickly, when it often took an hour or more for him to calm down by himself.

But this time it was different. I knew as soon as he raised his head from where it had been resting on his knees. His eyes glimmered from between his forearms, two dark pools ringed by a halo of hyacinth blue. My own breath was sucked from my throat as our eyes locked. In the fat pupils, which nearly eclipsed the blue, there was that glint of cruelty that hadn't shown itself since the Capitol. He held my gaze, lip curling in disgust as I watched Mutt-Peeta take control. My hand, still frozen on his back, began to tremble, and all I could think was, _This is it. We're out in the woods with a storm coming and no one is here to help me. He really will kill me, this time._

I felt a yank on my shirt and the base of my skull hit something with enough force to send black spots spreading over my vision. I blinked them away in time to realize that Peeta had shoved me against the nearest object, which happened to be the sturdy trunk of a maple. His arms flanked my head, hands braced on the bark on either side, and his body kept mine in place. But he didn't move. Pressed against the tree, disoriented from the two successive blows, I sought out his gaze once again. His eyes were closed tightly, brow furrowed, breath coming in harsh bursts. Hope sparked in my chest. He was fighting it off.

I waited, silent and still, terrified of doing anything that would make it worse. Rain began to fall, landing on us in small, icy drops and rolling down my skin until I shivered. It seemed like an hour or more went by, but I know it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. As the seconds ticked by, my eyes drifted to some point over his shoulder, fixing on empty space. My thoughts quieted, smothered under a haze of some emotion I couldn't name. I knew I needed to stop, to come back to myself, before it was too late, but I couldn't muster the will to do it. I half expected to feel the old kitchen rocking chair beneath me as my mind slipped towards the deep, empty track I'd walked so many times before. Before Peeta came back. Before he pulled me out of the shadows of my own mind. Before.

At last I felt his body relax, bit by bit, and then sway away from me. I slid down the trunk, no longer fixed in place by his weight, as my knees buckled. I hit the ground, curling into myself, and Peeta sat down next to me heavily.

"I'm sorry," he choked. His hands landed on either side of my face, light as the touch of a moth's wing, their warmth easing the cool burn of my frozen skin. "I'm so sorry." He began to pepper my face with kisses, and as he did, I numbly raised one hand to rest over his. "God, I'm so sorry, Katniss," he wept, and cradled me to his chest.

Only then did I stir, dragging myself out of the haze of unresponsiveness that had been gathering since the rain began to fall. I forced myself to open and close my fists, then breathe in and out, then lift my head. Peeta's eyes found mine, blue once more. They were red from crying, and it was this detail that pushed me far enough from my mental rut to respond.

"No," I muttered, shaking my head laboriously. "'s not your fault."

"Did I hurt you?" He was turning me around, lifting my arms, checking my neck and wrists for injuries.

I shook my head again.

A breath pushed from between his lips and his forehead nudged against my own. "I'm sorry," he said again.

As I drew further away from my vortex of numbness, my stubbornness returned full-force. "Would you stop apologizing?" I said crossly. "It's _their_ fault, not yours."

He flinched and his eyes darted down, then back up to my face. I could tell he was about to make another argument against himself, or apologize again, and that was no good at all, so I stopped his words with a kiss. He responded immediately, wrapping his arms around me as was our habit. Maybe it was the aftereffects of the episode, but Peeta's kiss was demanding. For the first time in my recollection, he pressed me down into the leaves of the forest floor and lifted himself to hover over me, supported by his knees and elbows. His arms and legs formed a sort of cage around me, making it impossible to roll to one side or the other and escape. But I didn't want to escape. Peeta's tongue flickered against my bottom lip, then slipped past my teeth without permission, tracing the contours of my mouth. He withdrew briefly to nip at my lips, then plunged in again, pressing me further into the earth as his weight settled on me. Somehow, one of my arms found its way around his neck while the other curled over his back. He hummed appreciatively and pushed his tongue against mine.

This new, bold Peeta was and foreign and forceful and, at once, familiar. I could still feel the inherent sturdiness of the Peeta I knew in all his actions. I could feel the warmth and affection that had grown between us like a dandelion seed since the spring. But never before had he kissed me while lying on the ground. Never before had his tongue swirled against mine quite so daringly. Never, it occurred to me, except for once. On the beach.

Just as the thought entered my mind, Peeta's teeth closed over my lower lip, pinching it quickly before his tongue flicked over the newly sensitive area. Inexplicably, my legs squeezed together of their own accord as something at the apex of my thighs throbbed deliciously. A whimper escaped me, and Peeta, mistaking it for one of pain, drew back instantly. The alien sensation abated and I breathed deeply, bewildered.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have… I was too rough." His cheeks colored as he sat back on his heels and helped me up, his shyness in stark contrast to the bold boy that just kissed me.

We found our baskets of chestnuts and headed for home after that, quiet and with eyes turned to the gathering storm. I led the way, my steps a bit less confident than usual, still dazed from what occurred under the maple tree.

The next time Peeta kissed me, I waited hesitantly for the strange tug low in my belly. But it didn't come. Half disappointed and half relieved, I all but forgot about the incident, turning my attention to more important things. Autumn was going along at a nice clip, after all, and winter would be there sooner rather than later. There were meats to smoke, fruits to can, vegetables to freeze, blankets to find and bows to oil and store away in closets for their long inactivity over the blizzard months. Peeta, busy with his baking, made enough loaves and delicacies to hand out for free in the new town square, earning him the love of each and every child in Twelve.

Now, we're well into the winter and the biggest blizzard we've seen this year is snarling at every door and window. The curtains have been closed tight for days, to preserve heat, and Peeta has turned out at least half a dozen paintings in the last week. Tonight is no different from any other night in the past half month. We ate dinner, attempted to phone Haymitch and Doctor Aurelius again, only to find the phone lines out, and then got ready for bed. Peeta kissed my neck as we slid beneath the heaps of sheets and quilts. I snuggled against him, keeping warm, as the storm continued beyond the walls. The only thing different about tonight is Peeta's touch, lingering on my leg, raising goose bumps.

And now, he murmurs, "Katniss? Are you awake?"

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**Fun stuff to come soon, my lovelies! ;) **

**If you have time, a review would be greatly appreciated, especially since this is the first chapter. Thank you ever so much. :D**

**Until next time!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, my lovelies!**

**Here it is, as promised. **

**Don't get ****_too_**** excited, though... ;)**

**Enjoy!**

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I turn over, eyes wide to accommodate for the darkness of the room, and Peeta shifts so he's propped up on one elbow. "Hi." The softest of orange light, emanating from the dying fire in the fireplace, allows me to make out one half of his face.

"Hi."

It's cold, and even piled with blankets in a fire-warmed room, I want to turn over again and press my back against his broad chest. I can feel the heat of his skin from here, but I want to be closer. I shrug impatiently and he chuckles, picking up on my silent message, and scoots across the bed toward me. One of his arms wraps around my shoulders and I tuck my head into his neck.

"Better?" he asks gently, and I nod against him.

We're quiet for a length of time, just listening to the snow blow against the windowpanes. After a while, Peeta continues drawing little circles on the skin above my knee. Every few minutes, his fingers wander towards the hem of my nightshirt, hesitating just centimeters from the fabric, before returning to their circles. Every time this happens, he opens his mouth and takes a half-breath, as if to say something, then closes it again. At last I look up at him questioningly. In response, he lowers his lips to mine.

I tense, at first. This is the first time we've kissed while lying in bed. In the garden, yes, at the table, yes, but never in bed. Unbidden, my mind flashes to the rare bits of information I have about what goes on in the bed of a man and a woman. Some that I know from my mother, some from overheard whispers and giggles at school and in the Capitol. Even put all together, it isn't much. However mad I was, Peeta was right to call me pure.

_Stop it,_ I tell myself sternly. _You're kissing. That's all. Just because you're in bed doesn't mean anything is going to happen._

I return the kiss, too late, and Peeta pulls back.

"Is something wrong?" he asks, quietly, and I think I see him flush in the dim light of the fire.

I say, "No."

He looks dubious, but allows me to lean in for another. It's shallow and chaste and I'm convinced that I was right. Just kissing. Nothing is going to happen.

"What are you thinking about?" Peeta says when he leans away.

This, too, relaxes me. It's another game we play, alongside 'real or not real'. Something else Doctor Aurelius suggested. It's supposed to build trust and communication, as well as help restore Peeta's memories. We've spent whole afternoons like this, just talking. The more we talk, the easier it gets. At first, I barely spoke a word to anyone, preferring to communicate with gestures and expressions. It was Peeta that coaxed me out of my shell and convinced me to speak again.

The game, though familiar, sends a flush of my own up my neck. I have to answer honestly, if I answer at all. That's one of the few rules. "Us," I say quickly, then add, "The summer. Autumn."

Peeta senses the half-truth and pursues, "What about us?"

I suck in my cheeks and twist my head, searching for something else to look at.

"What?"

When I won't answer, Peeta jostles me by scooting even closer and nudging me in the ribs.

"What is it? Hm?"

The hand not resting on my knee goes to my side, and before I realize what he's doing, Peeta's fingers and dancing up and down my ribs, spider-like. I make a noise halfway between an indignant shriek and a giggle, crawling away, but Peeta won't have it. He hooks an arm around my waist, anchoring me to him, and continues to tickle me.

"Hm?" he presses. "Is it a secret?"

"No," I gasp, succeeding in wriggling out of his grasp.

"Then what?" He's grinning now, and his smile warms me from across the bed. Then, abruptly, the smile fades. "Unless…" He ducks his head contritely. "Unless you didn't want to tell me," he says, then rushes on, "Which is fine. You don't have to… I mean, if you don't want to –"

"I was thinking about us," I interrupt, because I can't go on watching him think I'm rejecting him. "Kissing. Over the summer and autumn. _That's it_," I emphasize.

The smile, so abruptly gone, now comes sneaking back. "Oh?"

"Yeah," I say, suddenly defensive. "And?"

Peeta tucks a hand under my chin and turns my face toward him. "Were they… nice thoughts?"

If I wasn't red before, I'm sure I am now. "Yes," I admit.

He tips his head to one side, seeming to consider something. Then, stroking my cheek with a thumb, he cautiously asks, "You like kissing me. Real or not real?"

"Real," I say sadly, because I'm remembering the last time he asked me that. In a hospital room in the tunnels of Thirteen, him strapped to a cot and me half insane already.

"But you didn't before," he clarifies, almost to himself. "Before the Capitol, it was for the cameras."

The happy light in his eyes has dimmed, and seeing it sends splinters of pain through me. I slip my arms around him and hold him tight, and that helps. "Only sometimes," I whisper. "Sometimes it was for the cameras. Sometimes it was because I wanted to."

He nods, his gaze far off, and is silent for several seconds. Then he looks back at me. "But not now. Now it's… only when you want?"

"Real," I affirm.

"Because there aren't any cameras."

"Real."

He nods again, chewing the corner of his lip, and then uses the light grip he already has on my chin to lift my face to his. Our lips meet again, and I'm startled by the intensity of the kiss. I expected something soft and fleeting, like our last kisses. Instead, it's hot and needy. I'm reminded of that time in the forest, under the maple tree, though the circumstances couldn't be more different.

I'm aware of Peeta rolling onto his stomach, so our torsos overlap, and then one of his hands slides into my hair, picking out the hair tie. My braid falls apart, letting my hair fall loose around my shoulders, and a sigh passes from his lungs into mine. I know Peeta likes to play with my hair when it's down. He's constantly taking it out of its braid, and I'm constantly griping at him for it. But not this time. This time, as he carefully combs through the thick, dark locks, I give a small sigh of my own. His fingers tug gently at the strands, sending a tingling sensation across my scalp. I must make some noise of contentment, because I feel his lips curve up in a smile.

He pulls away, and I'm almost disappointed. The kiss was so much like the one in the woods, I was sure I would feel that thing again. The fluttery, insistent throb between my legs. I'm instantly filled with shame at the thought, and I have to resist the urge to cover my face as if Peeta can see it in my eyes. I should not be chasing this… this… whatever it was. I should not even be thinking about it.

Before I can retreat into a ball of guilt, Peeta speaks. "Katniss?"

"Hmm?" I chance a glance into his eyes and nearly jump out of my skin. They're dark. I'm about to bolt from the bed when I realize that his pupils haven't eclipsed the blue. In the dim firelight, his irises themselves have deepened to a midnight blue, glinting with the dancing flames. He's not having an episode. But if not that, then what?

He studies my face, no doubt puzzled at my reaction. His thumb traces the curve of my cheek and I turn my face into his touch, wordlessly reassuring him.

His words are hesitant. "You trust me. Real or not real?"

It only takes a moment of indecision before I answer. "Real."

"Then…" He seems nervous, but I can't imagine why. His tongue pokes out of his mouth to run across the seam of his lips. "Let me try something?"

I nod uncertainly. My mind casts about for what he could be talking about. He's never asked permission while kissing me before. Not with words, at least. A glance, a nod, is all we need to communicate in the times when Peeta wants to hold on to my hips or unwind my braid. What could he need to ask permission for?

His right hand finds my lower thigh again, and again he drags his fingers up, pushing the hem of my nightshirt up an inch. He glances at me from underneath his eyelashes, a corner of his lower lip clamped between his teeth. Gently, he gathers the material between his fingers and gives a small tug.

Only now do I start to understand what he's asking.

My whole body is wrapped in a patchwork of scars. Thanks to Capitol technology, they don't stop me from performing day-to-day activities. I can climb trees and shoot a bow and hike to the lake and back without tearing my mismatched skin. My body is functional. But ugly. Some areas on my legs and sides escaped the flames, but beyond that, my skin is a mishmash of shiny, warped scar tissue and unnaturally smooth skin implants that only recently became a permanent part of my body. I am not something anyone would want to look at. Even Peeta and his golden heart.

My eyes widen and I quickly shake my head.

His face falls. "Katniss," he begins dejectedly, then shakes his head and sighs. He shifts to the side, so that he's no longer hovering over me, his face turned away from the firelight. I can't see his expression when he says, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"It's not you," I mutter, shame welling up in me again, this time for a different reason. "It's just…"

He waits patiently for me to finish the thought. I can't seem to get the words out.

"I'm not… It's just… I'm ugly." No matter how much I stutter trying to get them past my lips, the words are matter-of-fact, not self-pitying. I know what I look like, and I can't change it. It hasn't made much of a difference, up until now. But Peeta looks as if I've just announced I've never seen sunlight.

"How could you say that?" he asks. His voice is quiet, but it trembles with something I can't name.

"I am," I say. "I have scars." My gaze slides to the side, avoiding his.

His expression, or what I can see of it in the firelight, goes through a ballet of changes. Within a few seconds, his jaw sets. He sits up suddenly and crosses his arms over his torso in an X to grip the opposite sides of his shirt. I'm about to ask what he's doing when he pulls it off in one smooth motion, ducking his head just before it pops off over his hair. I'm taken aback. Except for very hot nights in the middle of summer, Peeta always wears a pajama shirt to sleep.

"Look." His eyes, still strangely dark in the flickering firelight, gleam at me across the space between us. Too startled to fully register what he said, I stare back. _"Look,"_ he urges again, and takes one of my hands between his own. He guides it to his bare shoulder, where my fingers light on a knot of skin, waxy and raised from the rest. A burn scar. I've seen it before, poking out from the collar of his shirts, so I know what it looks like. But feeling it is new. Hesitantly, I trace the shape with the tips of my fingers, afraid of hurting him if I press too hard.

"And here," he says quietly, guiding my hand further down his chest to a place where two pieces of skin meet. I can tell this is what it is because the long, thin line of raised tissue is almost identical to the ones that spider-web all over my own back. "And here." His voice shakes as he places my hand on his side, where three ridges twist over his ribs and up his back. These aren't the melted skin of a fire scar. These are from a blade. And I don't need to ask who inflicted them. I give a shudder as I imagine Snow standing by, smugly watching someone with a knife carve the lines in Peeta's side.

Peeta releases my wrist, allowing me to slide my hand lightly over his chest. My fingers catch on patches of hardened tissue and bump over nicks. Underneath all that, he is warm and solid and familiar. I have slept curled-up on his chest since the Victory Tour. I know it. I know _him_. But something about the way his stomach rises and falls with his breaths, the way his skin burns under my touch, sends a shiver through me.

"Don't you see?"

His palm finds the apple-sized scar on my forearm, where Johanna dug the tracker out.

"We're the same."

I meet his eyes, then, and their intensity fixes me in place. My hand still rests in the center of his chest when he takes the hem of my nightshirt between his fingers once again.

"May I?" he asks, and this time, I take a gulp of air and give a jerky nod.

As soon as the piece of fabric slithers over my shoulders and falls in a crumpled heap beside me, I cross my arms over my chest self-consciously. The blankets have slipped down past both of our waists, and the cool air washes over my torso like waves of lake water. My nipples tighten in the cold and a contradicting prickle of heat surges into my cheeks. I can't look Peeta in the eyes. I can't do anything. Why couldn't I just say no and go to sleep?

A touch under my chin brings my face up, and at last I fleetingly meet his gaze. "You don't have to cover yourself, Katniss," Peeta whispers. "You're beautiful."

"I'm not," I reply, but, trembling, I lower my arms.

As soon as my breasts are exposed, Peeta's breath hitches. I look down at myself, lips pressed together. My chest is one of the few places virtually untouched by flames. The skin there is its natural olive shade, soft and far smoother than the calloused skin of my hands. Having grown up in the Seam, I never received much extra sustenance, and certainly not enough for my body to spend on breasts or hips, so my frame is straight and narrow. But in the past year, my eating habits have finally begun to level out. The constant supply of food from Peeta and from the woods has strengthened my body. You can no longer see my ribs, and my belly is no longer sunken in. However, despite all the loaves of bread and good venison, my breasts are scarcely larger than they were when I was fourteen. The size of small apples, I know they can't measure up to the merchant girls that live in Twelve. I've never given it much thought before now.

Chewing on my lip, I finally muster the courage to look back up at Peeta.

"Is this –" He clears his throat and seems to forcibly drag his gaze away from my chest to meet my eyes. "Is this too much?"

"I don't know," I answer. I'm shaking and cold and uncertain. By all accounts, the answer should be, 'yes'. But, as Peeta carefully takes me by the waist and pulls me closer, I can't make myself say the word.

Without taking his hands from my waist, Peeta kisses me. I focus on just moving my lips against his, trying to push down the nerves that have settled in my stomach. After a while, it becomes easier. _This is okay,_ I tell myself. _Just kissing. Just kissing… without shirts on. But kissing. You know this._

As I relax into the kiss, Peeta lifts me onto his lap with precise care, touching only my hips and waist. His hands slide an inch up my sides, then back down in a calming gesture he's used many times before. He leans back, and I open my eyes to find him already staring into them, studying them for my reaction. Our deep, even breaths mix between us, and I give a little nod. A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth as he closes in again.

For the second time tonight, the kiss starts out sweet and quickly builds until lips part and tongues flick. Peeta twines one hand in my hair, massaging my scalp, while the other squeezes my hip. A tingle shoots through me when his teeth momentarily scrape my bottom lip, biting at it playfully before retreating. My hands link behind his back and I lean into him, only to jerk back with a small cry as my bare breasts brush against his chest. The sensation is warm and ticklish, and it ignites that thing I felt on the beach, and then in the forest – the thing I've been subconsciously chasing ever since.

"Katniss," Peeta pants, and I see his eyes drift to my chest again. I have to fight the urge to wrap the blanket tightly around myself. "God… You're beautiful."

For the first time, I don't contradict him. He gazes at my tiny breasts as if I'm some exotic and alluring creature from the deepest part of the wildwood. As if I'm worthy of being looked at.

"Can I…?"

I don't know what he's asking, but I nod. Whatever he wants, I'm not likely to deny him. Not with this elusive fluttering feeling moving through me.

He disentangles his hand from my hair, and the next thing I know, both his palms are cupping my breasts. Without quite meaning to, I arch my back, pressing them into his hands. The warmth of his skin against my chilled flesh sends goose bumps rising all across my body. Experimentally, he flexes his fingers, and I suck in a harsh breath. I should be embarrassed, I should be pulling away, but his ministrations are sending little ripples of heat and… something else I can't name through me. His thumb catches on one puckered peak and I whimper. Peeta's eyes flick to my face. Deliberately, he does it again. The calluses on his thumb rub pleasingly across the sensitive skin and a small noise, half-sigh, half-moan drips from my mouth.

"That?" he asks in a low voice, repeating the action on the other breast. "You like that?"

I blush all the way down my neck and force myself to nod, swallowing as many lungfuls of air as I can. Why is this happening? Why am I letting it?

That's when Peeta lowers his lips to one breast.

His hot mouth surrounds the rosy tip and my head snaps back, mouth parted in a silent cry. His tongue swirls around my nipple, laving it thoroughly, and I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging softly as a strange, sweet ache blossoms in my breasts and between my thighs. I reflexively squeeze my legs together, only to find them still resting on either side of Peeta's lap. When my thighs clamp down around his hips, a groan resonates in his chest. And then he begins to suck.

A moan falls freely from my lips. Why was I so worried earlier? This feels _good_, so good I no longer care that it shouldn't be happening. With every pull of his mouth, a spike of pleasure shoots from the source to the fluttering place low in my belly. My thighs continue to squeeze, rhythmically, desperate to fill the hollow place between them.

Peeta's mouth leaves my breast, and I protest weakly, only to let my words dissolve into a sigh when it lands on the other. His hand comes up to attend to the one his lips just abandoned, rolling the sensitized nipple between his fingers. The sweet ache only intensifies, leaving me squirming in his lap, my low whine curling into the air.

With a grunt, he releases me, exposing me once again to the cold air. "You're so perfect," he mouths, lips moving against the swell of my breast.

What from the chill and from Peeta's mouth, my nipples are painfully tight, like two blushing rose buds atop dusky mounds. He lets out a puffing breath that ghosts across the right one, sending a sharp pang through both. Vaguely, I wonder how something so much like pain can feel so good.

I'm still perched in his lap, making my chest level with his face. He blinks with heavy eyelids, his eyes feasting on my naked torso, but for a reason unfathomable to me I don't care. My mind is pleasantly foggy, as if I've swallowed a teaspoon of sleep syrup. As Peeta bobs his head over one breast, flattening his tongue over the wanting flesh, my hands fist in his curls, automatically tightening and releasing with each of his movements. My eyes close and all I can think is, _Yes,_ and _this_ and _him._

And then he stops, leaning away with one last tender suckle. He places a kiss on my lips, which I clumsily return, and allows me to wind my arms around his neck.

As I struggle to catch my breath, forehead resting on the golden curls on top of his head, he lifts a hand to stroke my hair.

His question is quiet, mumbled against my collar bone. "Was that okay?"

"Yes," I exhale. As my heartbeat slows, so does the throbbing between my thighs. A warm wetness has pooled there. Almost bashfully, I move off his lap, sitting beside him with my legs firmly clamped together. An expression that might be disappointment flashes across Peeta's face, but he quickly recovers.

"Are you sure?" He plays with a strand of my hair, pushing it away from my face. "We aren't going too fast? Because if we are… just say the word."

I fidget and shrug. Now that my body is floating down from the place it ascended to, guilt is creeping in, prodding at me. I never dreamed he would put his mouth _there_… or that I'd like it so much. Did I like it _too_ much? Is something wrong with me? Am I like those merchant girls that constantly vanished behind the slag heap?

"You're thinking too much," Peeta announces gently. He fishes for my nightshirt, retrieving it from the edge of the bed, and offers it to me. Gratefully, I pull it on, flushing deeper than I thought possible. He kisses my temple, and the innocent gesture is somehow just as intimate as our activities just minutes ago. "We'll take it slow," he promises. He rearranges the quilts over us, straightening them and drawing them up to our chins.

I snuggle against him readily, and his chest rises and falls in a sigh of – what, relief? Did he think I would distance myself from him because of what just happened? Should I?

_No,_ I decide, as Peeta drapes an arm over my waist. Drawing away now would just mean stress and pain for both of us. We've spent too many days together to suddenly fall apart. Especially now, during this winter storm, when both of us are essentially trapped in the house with one another.

A shiver works its way from my tailbone to the base of my skull as I remember his gentle hands, the tug of his lips on –

_Stop._

I clench my teeth and promise myself I won't think about it. Beside me, Peeta sighs again, and his lips brush the skin behind my ear. Before long, his breathing settles into a pattern I know by heart, and I know he's asleep. I'm about to follow him when something occurs to me. _"We'll take it slow," _he said. Does that mean there's more to come?


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm so sorry about my long absence. Here, take an extra-long, extra-fun chapter to make up for it? ;)**

**Enjoy, kiddos.**

* * *

The mug clatters to the table and I sputter, quickly pressing the cool blade of a butter knife to my throbbing lower lip. The traitorous tea steams calmly, a starburst ring of liquid darkening the wood beneath the mug. I glare at it and a soft laugh at my shoulder makes me turn.

"Careful," Peeta says needlessly, amusement bubbling in his voice. "It's still hot."

"I figured that out, oddly enough," I say, lowering the knife. The tip of my tongue probes the tender flesh of my lip and I wince.

Large hands turn my face and Peeta dips his head, meeting me halfway to brush his chapped lips against my burnt ones. His mouth is cool from the water he's been drinking. He drags his lower lip across my own, soothing the heat with an almost-kiss. I sigh and twist my body to face him fully, but he withdraws, eyes bright.

"Better?" he teases.

He takes another sip of his water and ducks around the corner, a smirk twisting up one side of his mouth. I stand at the table, looking after him, unable to decide if his cockiness annoys or enthralls me. After a moment, I turn and take the mug in my hands again, blowing on the surface of the liquid. I wait a good while before taking a sip, and even then, I'm not paying much attention to the temperature of the tea. My mind replays the way his eyes followed the path of my tongue, the feel of his ice-cooled mouth on mine, the smell of him. Cinnamon and honey, yeast and soap flakes and _Peeta._ That same scent overwhelmed me just yesterday, in the dark of night, when he lifted me onto his lap, coaxed off my nightshirt with gentle words and gentler hands, put his mouth –

As soon as I realize what I'm doing, I shake my head forcefully and make myself think of something else.

It's Sunday, and old habits die hard. I rose before dawn, along with Peeta, and had already opened the closet door for my bow before I remembered that going out wouldn't be an option. Overnight, the storm screamed and the ground swelled with white mounds, shaped by wind, while the windows blurred with feathers of frost. Even if the doors weren't frozen shut, it would be a suicide mission to set foot on the porch, let alone in the woods. For now, I am trapped indoors. I envy Peeta, who can practice his preferred skills come rain or shine. The ovens blaze with light and heat, producing all manner of spongy, fragrant breads and confections, and I'm sure he'll paint something before the day is done.

The sun has just shown itself, peering over the horizon like one dim, white eye, obscured by the clouds and snow. It hardly makes a difference – all our curtains are drawn, some even reinforced with extra sheets or blankets draped over the curtain rods to insulate the rooms. For the first time in memory, I am glad for the elaborate Victors' Village house, with its stone fireplaces everywhere you turn and solid oak in the walls.

Of course, it looks much different now than it did even a year ago. All the Capitol photographs of bleak landscapes and government buildings were ripped from the walls long ago, replaced with Peeta's paintings of peaceful things. The forest. My primrose bushes. The sunset over a newly-built merchant square. Even one of Prim, brightening the hall with her infectious smile, holding a disgruntled Buttercup in her arms. Pelts of animals I've shot and skinned lie spread over furniture, concealing the cold leather with a layer of plush fur. The television is gone, locked away in the attic, and in its place stands a trunk of Peeta's family's things. I saw him go through it once, stroking each object before carefully setting it aside. One of his father's aprons. Notes from his brothers. A vase his mother favored. They're the things that migrated from the bakery to his Victors' Village house before the fire bombs. Nothing of the old bakery is left but a twisted scrap of metal that used to be an oven door. That's in the trunk, too.

The sound of the study doors opening startles me from my thoughts. I glance at the clock, mildly surprised to find that several minutes have gone by, but grateful that it wasn't any longer. I used to lose chunks of time by the hour. Still do, sometimes. It's a little better, now, but I can't trust myself to slip into my thoughts unless I want to look up and find that a day has gone by and I've neither moved nor ate. I was lucky this time. The tea is still warm in the mug. I haven't lost more than a quarter hour.

I step towards the source of the noise, fingers tightening around my cup. Since the day Snow invaded my home, a viper behind the study desk, I've all but shunned the room, always skirting the tightly closed double doors at a half-run when I pass. If there was a lock, I would have locked it tight and flung the key into the deepest part of the lake. A shudder clamps down on the base of my spine at the image of Snow, white blossom tucked in his lapel, blood dribbling down his chin, laughing as Coin's body slumped over the railing.

_"Oh, my dear Miss Everdeen. I thought we had an agreement not to lie to each other."_

I realize I have shrunk against the wall, pressing myself into a corner. The mug is on the floor somewhere behind me, contents seeping into the carpet.

"Katniss?"

I jump violently and whip around, only to meet Peeta's concerned gaze.

"Katniss, what is it?"

His voice is oddly muffled, and only when he comes to me and gently tugs down on my wrists do I realize my hands are jammed against my ears. Someone's breathing in small, harsh gasps, and I think it might be me. Over Peeta's shoulder, the study door gapes open, a cold, dim rectangle. The overwhelming urge to run crushes me and I lurch backwards. Something hard under my heel, and then I'm on the ground, skittering away on my palms. Pain, made unimportant by the adrenaline, lances up my left calf.

_Get away, get away, have to get away, _a voice chants in my head. It's Prim, it's Rue, it's Cinna and Boggs. Snow is in that cold room. I can't see him, but I can feel him, a presence lurking just behind the door. I choke on the tang of blood, like a jar of copper coins, and the smell of roses makes my head swim. _Get away, run, run get away get away!_

My shoulders hit something unyielding. Fingernails scrabble on wallpaper. A wall. Can't get away. Can't run. Can't run. Screaming and blood and roses and Snow and can't run, can't run, can't run…

A pair of arms under my shoulders and knees. Lifting, swaying. Cinnamon and honey. Gulping breaths. Cinnamon. Not blood. Not roses. A hand caressing my hair, not tearing at my skin. Voices murmuring, not screaming. No, not voices. Just one. One voice. Peeta. Whispering against my temple.

Gradually, my heartbeat slows and I am able to process my surroundings. I'm cradled to Peeta's chest. He's rocking me back and forth like a frightened child, murmuring reassurances into my hair, smoothing one hand along my skin. I realize that his fingers are trembling. His other hand is pressing against my left heel, and as soon as I notice this I register a flash of pain there. My eyes open and immediately I notice the streaks of scarlet slowly soaking between his fingers. My head turns shakily and my eyes seek out the spots of crimson on the patterned carpet, forming an uneven trail from the hallway through the living room door.

Finally, I turn back towards Peeta, eyes widening in a question. As soon as our eyes meet, he curls up into himself, bringing me even closer. His knees rise and his free hand goes to hook underneath them, pressing me into a nest of warm skin and folds of sweater and shaggy golden curls.

"God, Katniss," he exhales. "Are you okay?"

"You tell me," I whisper. I can barely remember what led up to this moment. The pain in my heel is distracting, but not as distracting as the fact that I can't remember why it hurts. "What happened?"

"I went into the study to look for ink. I thought there might be some in the desk. When I came out, it looked like you were having a panic attack. I asked what was wrong, but you wouldn't answer me, and –" His voice cracks and he pauses, pressing his face into my neck, before continuing. "And you kind of stumbled backward. You stepped on the mug and broke it, and a shard went into your foot. You backed yourself into a corner and curled up into a ball and started screaming… I… I didn't know what to do, I…" I can feel his shiver all around me. "I was so scared, Katniss."

"'m sorry," I mutter, sorting through the information he gave me. The study. He went into the study. I saw the door open, and then –

"Snow!" I gasp, jerking upright and consequentially knocking my skull into his chin.

"What?" He rubs his chin. "What about Snow?" He sees the reappearing panic in my eyes and shakes his head, tucking me gently back against him. "Snow is dead, Katniss. He can't hurt us anymore."

"But the study," I sob, shaking all over again. "H-he was in the study, he was _there,_ he…"

"No, he wasn't, Katniss," he says patiently. "I was just in there. We're the only ones here. It's all right. You're safe."

I look up into his eyes, tears wet on my cheeks. His gaze holds so much pain that an answering ache throbs in my chest. I can't stop myself from whimpering, "Are you sure?"

Peeta looks at me for a long minute, contemplating something, before he braces himself on the arm of the couch and hefts himself to his feet with me still draped across his arms. He deposits me back on the couch and rubs a palm over my shoulder. "I'm sure," he says, then turns and walks into the hall. There's some rustling, and then the whoosh and clunk of the double doors closing. He reappears in the doorway.

"Just us," he confirms.

I nod and reach for him, and he obliges, striding across the room to lower himself next to me.

"Just us," he says again as I nuzzle into him, and this time I believe it. With the study doors closed, _that day_ is once again shut away in the past, and Snow with it. My muscles begin to relax, my body easing away from fight-or-flight. As always after a panic attack, my head pounds.

Peeta shifts my legs over his lap, and I look at him curiously.

"We need to get something for your foot," he says in answer, lifting me and starting towards the kitchen.

"I can walk."

"I know." His grip tightens. "Humor me."

He carries me to the kitchen table, where he sets me in the nearest chair and props my foot up on another. He brings down a box of medical supplies from its place in the cupboard while I twist my leg to examine the wound. It's wide, but shallow, and already the bleeding is beginning to slow. It won't need stitches, but I'll be limping for a while. I cross my left leg over my right, propping the heel on the opposite knee, and begin to clean the cut while Peeta goes to retrieve the shattered mug. By the time he's thrown away the fragments of china and sponged up the spilled tea, I've already finished wrapping my heel.

He lifts the box back into the cupboard, then comes to kneel in front of me, holding one of my palms to his cheek. "I'm sorry," he mouths, and his breath heats my cold fingers.

"For what?"

"I should have known about the study. It's my fault that happened. It's my fault you got hurt."

My brows sink in my usual scowl. "No. How could you have known? I panicked, you calmed me down, end of story."

A sigh expands his chest so that it momentarily pushes against his sweater, filling it with the firm landscape I've become so familiar with. "I'll make you breakfast," he offers.

I look to the window, and yes, it's still morning, gray through the cracks between the curtains. Strange how time moves so quickly some times and so slowly others.

"Anything you want," he goes on. "You can eat it in bed and rest your heel. I'll bring up the book, if you want."

I know it would be pointless to refuse. All that would accomplish would be an extra few minutes of arguing, ending in me finally giving in anyway. It's easier, better, to just let him be kind. So, half an hour later, I am once again under the covers in our bedroom, a tray of bacon, cheese buns, scrambled eggs and hot chocolate on my lap. Peeta sits cross-legged on the other side of the bed, diligently working on a new sketch for our book. It's one of the tributes I never knew, the one that the Careers sent Peeta back to 'finish off'. Little did they know, he actually held her until she died, then closed her eyes before returning to them.

I've drained my cup and all but emptied my plate, leaving only a few pinches of bacon for Buttercup, who has been parading up and down the bed since I got here, yowling for attention. He snaps up the offered meat from my palm, licks the remnants of grease from my fingers, then goes to curl up in one of his hiding spots. His orange plumbed tail flicks around the doorframe as I set the tray on the side table.

Peeta looks up.

"Done?" he asks, putting aside his drawing.

I nod absently, wiping cat spit off on the duvet. I'm still thinking about earlier.

"Good."

I'm startled to find him crawling over the blankets, setting the mattress dipping and swaying on the bed frame, but I don't push him away when he curls an arm around my back and pulls me to him. He rests his forehead at the crown of my head, nudging me a few times before he gets comfortable, and gives a contented sigh.

"Why do you do that?" I ask.

He lifts his head slightly to speak, and I can feel his breath, warm and damp, raising goose bumps, against the skin behind my ear. "Do what?"

"You know," I say, shifting my hips so I face him more fully. "That. Rest your head on mine."

"I like to smell your hair," he replies simply. "It smells like pine and wood smoke and lavender. Like you."

It's in these moments, when he speaks with absolute sincerity and his eyes grow big and sweet, that I can most see the Peeta from before the Quell. Before everything, really. Like he was in the cave, when rain streaked just outside and we were snug and safe in our little cocoon of stew and sleeping bags and kisses. Of course, we weren't really safe – far from it – but given a choice between reliving any of the events in the past two years and reliving the cave, I'd choose the cave. There, it was only me and Peeta. No one else to watch out for, no one to pacify with frantic attempts at making peace, no charred remains to haunt us. At the time, we were miserable, but now it seems like paradise.

Maybe it's this that compels me to whisper back, "You smell like cinnamon. And honey, and soap flakes."

I can't decipher the expression on his face, so I hurry on, babbling in my insecurity.

"It was what brought me back, after the attack, I mean, because I knew it was you and not a hallucination, because it _smelled _like you, and I've probably made you uncomfortable now and – "

Peeta swallows my words in a kiss. It seems as if he's learned something from me, after all.

"Katniss," he says, and it's a prayer, a plea, against my lips.

All at once, those eyes that were so innocent just a moment ago are deep sapphire and intense with hunger. My heart stutters as they stare into mine, seeking something… and finding it.

Our mouths mesh again, and it's like the cave, like the beach, like the forest. I wonder, as his hands slide into my hair, if it will always be like this: comparing kisses to the ones I know to be real, because of all the false ones on the Victory Tour. I wonder, suddenly, if that's what Peeta does – except for everything.

"Real or not real," I gasp, though I know the answer.

Peeta's reply is a growl at the corner of my lips. "Real."

Then he goes for my throat. Lips diving to my pulse point, pinching it between his teeth, releasing it with an open-mouthed kiss. A shudder of _something_ drips from his mouth through the rest of my body – something akin to what I felt last night. My thoughts betray me, instantly hoping for the same set of events to repeat themselves. I tell myself no, that it's too soon, that Peeta might not even want to look at me again, let alone touch me. But my traitor body thrums in anticipation. What with Peeta's kisses, moving slowly towards the junction of my neck and shoulder, and with the memories of his mouth on my breasts, it takes no time at all for the fluttering to return. It settles itself at the apex of my thighs with a vengeance, pulsing with my heartbeat. I feel _empty_, hollow, and yet as if I am swelling with heat and want.

My cheeks warm and I glance down to see if Peeta has noticed my expressions. He has done little more than kiss me, and already my body is begging for more. Surely, that cannot be what is supposed to happen.

He _has_ noticed. Deep, hooded eyes flick up to my face, crinkled at the corners with a laugh that vibrates against my body. "Oh, Katniss," he exhales, a smile curving his lips against the hollow of my throat.

"Don't laugh at me," I say quietly, unable to muster up enough volume to sound indignant.

"Never." His hand lights on my hip, keeping me in place, as his lips scale my throat. They brush over my jaw before returning to my mouth, and I sit up more fully, slanting my lips over his. I move to link my hands behind his neck, only to find them already entangled in his shirt.

I take in a sharp breath, letting my jaw fall open, at the feel of Peeta's tongue tracing the roof of my mouth, flicking over my teeth before retreating. He's growing bolder, and every action feeds the little fire within me, slowly but surely stoking it to a blaze low in my belly. My muscles twitch and my legs rub together. The action sets the space between my thighs throbbing. I make a noise, something between a gasp and a whimper, and an answering hum rises from Peeta's chest.

With a shuddering breath, he rises, pulling himself away from me and drawing a soft sound of disappointment from my lips.

"Katniss," he says again. He wets his lips. "May I…?"

I'm thrown back to another time, another question, not a day ago. It is not so different now. The curtains are drawn to keep out the cold and the fireplace crackles reassuringly across from the bed. And, just like last time, I am not likely to deny him.

In place of an answer, I twist my arms and wriggle out of the high-necked sweater that encases my torso, taking the thin undershirt with it. The two stick together and crumple in a heap beside me. All that's left is a simply-cut bra – one of cotton and ribbon from my mother's days as an apothecary's daughter, folded and stitched strategically to fit me. It was something she took it upon herself to do, before the Quell announcement, when I outright refused to buy any underclothes from the market. Before the Games, I had always worn lengths of cloth, bound like a bandage around my chest and tied at my spine, or nothing at all. It hadn't really been a priority. But after we returned home, my mother became convinced that I needed something more suitable than rags to wear under my shirt. Perhaps she predicted that a day like this would come, when someone besides myself would look upon the undergarments.

Though Peeta has already seen me half-naked, and though I still have the flimsy piece of fabric to cover me, my head still swivels to the side, avoiding Peeta's gaze. My heart is doing nervous little jumps in my chest, pumping a fresh wave of blood into my cheeks. He must see my lingering discomfort, because he makes no move except to place little kisses at my temple, nuzzling my hair and murmuring nonsensical words until I'm able to turn my head and meet him for a kiss. We venture from our usual habits by leaving our eyes open, searching each others' gaze while our lips push and pull, tug and retreat like the tide. He does nothing to hide the longing in his eyes, and, without quite meaning to, I drink it in, absorbing it into my skin like sunlight, like life itself. After all those months of him hating me, hurting me, snapping and snarling at me like a feral dog, it's like a dose of morphling, that loving gaze.

No. Not morphling. Morphling puts you to sleep. Peeta's look of want, though dulling my thoughts, somehow simultaneously wakes me up. I feel alive. And this too, after months of numbness, is a change more welcome than any drug.

Peeta's arms move from my hips, sliding up my sides and around my back, his fingers meeting at the strip of fabric that runs just below my shoulder blades. He traces small circles on the skin there, and at the light touch my eyes flutter closed. A tiny nod, a nudge against his chin, is all he needs to go to work on the clasp. He fumbles, obviously unsure how to release the garment from my body, and I'm about to reach around and help him when he manages to undo it. A triumphant grin stretches his lips, pulling them away from mine, and I open my eyes again to catch the boyish sparkle in his gaze as he tosses it off the side of the bed.

He hesitates only a moment this time, giving me a questioning glance, before his hands go to my breasts. My head lolls to the side and two sighs lift my ribs, one after the other, as the fire in my belly leaps up into my chest. It's been – what, twelve hours? If that – and already it feels like a decade. Peeta navigates the swells of my small breasts with more certainty this time, cupping them with gentle, calloused palms before flicking his thumbs over the puckered peaks. That sweet ache begins to bloom in each, insistent and demanding, leaving me shivering in anticipation.

"Peeta," I pant. "I…" I can't make myself say it. Even with the effects of his hands, my inhibitions have not lowered enough to allow me to ask for what I want. In the end, all I can do is stutter, "P-please."

He understands. And maybe he wants this as badly as I do, because he lets out a shuddering breath as he descends, and as soon as his lips lock around one nipple, a deep "Mmm," resonates around the sensitive flesh.

Peeta takes his time, starting out slow and sweet. He attends to my left breast with one hand, squeezing rhythmically, while his other hand anchors itself firmly to my back, keeping me arched against his mouth. In no great hurry, he learns my secrets, discovering what makes me squirm or sigh. I learn with him. I learn that the little sounds of enthusiasm he makes around the tip of my breast send tingling ripples through me, scalp to toes. I learn that when he pinches a nipple between his teeth – gently, so gently – makes me whine and arch. I learn that if I squeeze my thighs together, it only makes the throbbing worse, but swinging my hips from side to side relieves it, if only for a moment.

Gradually, Peeta's movements increase in intensity. Nipping, sucking, squeezing his way towards something I do not know. He devours me, feeding on my mewls of delight and contentment, and when my swaying hips bump against his own, he rolls with a groan and settles his weight over me. I'm pressed down into the mattress, my hands tangled in his hair, my head rolling from side to side on the sheets. The fire in me has burned down to embers, somehow hotter than the flames, and they smolder in all the most forbidden places of my body.

I'm startled out of my dreamy haze at the unexpected jab of something hard against my thigh. I shift, puzzled, and Peeta releases me from his mouth to let out a small, "Ah."

Then I think I understand. I must flush all the way down to my toes, but along with embarrassment, there's an edge of that same sweet fire, goading me on. Before my mind can sort through the situation, my body reflexively lifts itself, pressing the sturdy fabric of my winter trousers into Peeta's legs and hips. He slumps forward, his face landing just below my collarbone, with a strangled sound.

"Katniss," he whispers, hisses, almost.

It occurs to me that this whole time Peeta's been making me feel good, and I've done nothing to repay him. Just like always, I've been selfish, taking without even thinking to give, while Peeta and his golden heart has done nothing _but_ give.

"Do you want me to…?" I blurt, trailing off because I honestly don't know how that sentence would end.

His head swings back and forth, and he moves both hands to cup my face, brushing his thumbs across the angles of my cheekbones. "No," he murmurs, resting his forehead on mine. "You don't need to, Katniss."

"But," I begin, and he cuts me off.

"Let me do this for you. I _want_ to do this for you." His voice and eyes beg, though the poke against my thigh doesn't abate. I'm about to protest when one hand lifts from my face, and a moment later a pinch at one sensitized nipple makes me jerk.

"Please." Another, gentler pinch, and then his hand is moving again, his forefinger dipping into the small hollow of my belly button before coming to rest at the band of my woolen trousers.

I look at him, nerves battling with eagerness, my teeth working at a corner of my lower lip. He catches sight of the action and groans, dipping his head to nip at the swollen lip for himself. When he lifts his head again, the tips of his fingers have slipped under the band of my trousers and are sliding back and forth along the skin of my hips, not pulling, not plunging deeper, just teasing. Testing.

"Peeta," I say quickly, and he withdraws. "I… I don't know. I've never…"

He waits, and when it becomes apparent I'm not going to finish my sentence, he speaks softly. "I won't do anything you don't want me to do," he says. "If you ever want me to stop, say the word and I'll stop."

This is true. I know without asking for confirmation, and I would have known had he said nothing at all, that Peeta would never force himself on me. But this is new territory, and momentarily overpowering the sensations running through me is a sharp twinge of fear. What if I disappoint him, somehow? What if I'm too damaged? What if I'm misinterpreting this whole thing, and I end up pushing him away again?

Then I look into his eyes, and I see that longing again – that unwavering love that scared me for so long, because I thought myself incapable of returning it. _"Let me do this for you,"_ his voice says in my head. _"I want to do this for you."_

_This is Peeta,_ I tell myself. _I trust him. It's just a stupid pair of pants, that's all._

"All right."

Peeta's eyes, which dimmed slightly in my long silence, light up like twin lanterns. They shine down on me as if I've just handed him the sun itself. Hesitantly, he says, "You're sure?"

I nod jerkily. "Yes."

I didn't realize how much the scratchy wool of my trousers bothered me until Peeta slides them over my hips and down my legs. My heated skin rejoices as the pants slide over my little feet and are forgotten somewhere on the floor. Now I'm before Peeta in nothing but a pair of practical boy shorts, worn thin from years of use, and while there is still adrenaline in my veins to make me brave, I remove those too. They would have come off anyway, and this way, it's done and over with.

Peeta's eyes widen, then quickly flash up to my face, as if he's afraid of scaring me off if he looks at me. My heart thrums, and I tug at the collar of his sweater with shaking fingers. He is fully dressed, while I am fully naked, and it feels wrong. He sits up to yank the sweater over his head, followed by the shirt underneath, and my hands go to his chest as he settles over me once again. I notice he leaves his own trousers in place, though the hard thing at my thigh is no less present. In a moment, he grips my hips and lifts me towards the head of the bed so I'm half propped up on the abundance of pillows he likes to keep there. He then shifts sideways to lie beside me. I miss his steady heat pressing me into the mattress. I'm cold without it, even under the quilts.

He seems to be gearing himself up to say something, and I'm perfectly content to take deep breaths, steadying myself, while I wait.

"Katniss," he starts, then lowers his voice by half a degree. "Do you ever… touch yourself?"

I'm confused, and my eyes must show this, because he elaborates, "Do you ever make yourself feel good?"

I don't know what he means. Make myself feel good? What does that involve? Eating well? Sleeping, laughing, appreciating beauty in the world? These are all things that Doctor Aurelius suggested, to help drag me out of the mental rut I dug for myself in the past years. But something tells me that none of them are what Peeta is referring to. There's an intensity in his eyes that hints at something profound, or something secret.

"I don't understand," I say, stiffly, because it's hard for me to admit. I don't like looking like an idiot, and that's how I feel right now.

Peeta lets out a long breath, dropping his gaze to something at my shoulder. After several moments, he looks back to me, resolve hardening his jaw.

"Do you trust me, Katniss?"

I nod.

"Will you let me try something?"

I nod again, but my voice trembles when I ask, "What?"

"I want to make you feel good." His gaze burns into me, conveying a fire that mirrors that in my belly.

My mind flashes to his hands, his mouth, pleasuring me just minutes ago. An echo of heat pulses through me at the thought, rekindling the cooling embers. "You already have."

He gives a short, strained laugh. "You really don't know, do you?"

"What?" I demand, irked.

His lips slide along my jaw and down my throat, pacifying me. "Just relax, Katniss," he says, reaching one hand up to pet my hair, running his fingers along the silky weave of my braid. "Relax and trust me. Can you do that for me?"

I feel as if I'm agreeing to something monumental, something that looms, shapeless, above me, neither welcoming nor threatening, when I breathe, "Yes."

At first, he sticks to what we know. His hands rub the muscles in my arms, his fingers trace circles just above my knees, his lips cover mine. He eases my nerves with the familiarity of kissing, and, bit-by-bit, I relax, just as promised. His hands stroke my cheeks and I try not to think. Just feel. A hundred questions whirl inside my mind, but I try to ignore them. After a while, it becomes easier. I fall into the rhythm of our simple embrace, lulled by the movements of his jaw and the flick of his velvet tongue against mine. I almost forget about my state of undress.

I don't notice, at first, when his right hand leaves my side to drift downwards. I expect it to skim along the outside of my thigh, travel down my calf, then reverse the journey, as it's done maybe a thousand times before. Instead, his fingers glide smoothly over my belly, towards the apex of my thighs, where that fluttering ache has manifested itself. I jump violently, jerking my head back to look at him with big, bewildered eyes. He stills, his fingers resting on the patch of dark, downy curls that protects the most secret part of my body. My pulse pounds in my temples and I swallow thickly, staring into his eyes. They are deep and gentle and sincere, promising me anything, everything. He lifts his brows a fraction of an inch. A question. _Should I stop?_

The thing is, I_ don't_ want him to stop. My whole body trembles and I don't think I've ever been so nervous or embarrassed in my life, but I don't want him to stop. Never before has the mysterious throbbing been so intense and palpable. My body has known more pain than it should be able to handle, sometimes, but this is the sweetest torture I've ever felt. The apex of my thighs is hot, slick and agonizingly hollow. And Peeta's fingers are _so_ close, resting just inches from the source of the throbbing. If he moved just a bit downwards –

"Please," I beg, speaking without knowing exactly what I'm asking for. _Please, soothe this ache, quench this fire, end this torture._ "Please, Peeta."

He lets out a sound deep in his throat, something between a groan and a curse, and his free hand goes to my hip, rolling me until I'm on my side, hooking underneath my knee. He drags my leg towards him until it's draped over his thigh, leaving me completely open to him. I have to turn my face into a pillow for a moment, spending yet another wave of embarrassment in little gasps. By the time I raise my head, Peeta has dragged his eyes away from my center just long enough to whisper, "Hold onto me, Katniss."

I fling my arms around his shoulders, grabbing on tight, preparing myself. Every nerve in my body buzzes, aware that something is about to happen. The air under the covers is thick with our breaths and with anticipation.

His fingers brush over the triangle of thick curls between my legs, descending painfully slowly towards my slit. My fingers dig into his shoulders. My hips twitch. And then he pushes down, and the tips of his fingers slip between my folds. Groans escape into the air. Mine. His. He drags the tips of two fingers along the hot seam, coating them in the slick fluid that gathers there. Up, down, and up again, never venturing too far, always coming back to the source of the wetness. When he dips his index finger a little ways inside me, I inhale harshly, then breathe out a stream of half-formed words and praises. If I felt hollow before, I am _empty_ now, desperate for something to fill me.

Then I realize exactly _what_ is supposed to fill me. I feel his hardness against my thigh again, and this time, instead of embarrassment, a bolt of longing shoots through me, sharp and strong.

"Oh," I gasp, "Oh."

It's as if I've forgotten all other words. All at once, I remember everything I've ever heard about what happens between a man and a woman. Will that happen? Will Peeta be… inside of me? Will we – _could we_ go that far?

I try to ask a question, but all that comes out is a shaky moan. I try again. "P-peeta?"

"Shh," Peeta hushes, sliding his free hand to my breast and tugging at the nipple. Obediently, I let the question die on my lips, dissolving into a sigh.

His finger dips into me again, sinking to the first knuckle, then slipping out and returning to its path up my slit.

Suddenly, Peeta spreads my folds with his fingers, exposing me to the warm air under the quilts. He leans back slightly to examine me in the dim light, pushing himself a foot farther down the bed. I'm strung too tight to be uncomfortable under his scrutiny, and Peeta looks his fill, an expression akin to wonder spread over his face. My head falls back against the pillows with a thump. It's too much work to watch him. Something between my folds, when exposed to the air, starts pulsing with my heartbeat, the now-familiar throb between my legs concentrating in one spot. It's as torturous as the hollowness inside me, and I swivel my hips, press them towards Peeta's hand, desperate for stimulation.

His wandering fingers brush past my opening, continuing farther up the spread petals of my feminism. I hear him curse quietly, and then an open-mouthed kiss lands on my breast. "Perfect," he sighs, his breath dampening the stiff nipple. "Katniss."

"Peeta. Oh, Peeta."

All at once, without any warning of any kind, Peeta's fingers find something wonderful. A kernel of pure bliss, hidden away between my velvet folds. It's the briefest of touches, just a brush of calloused skin, but it sends a bone-deep shiver of pleasure shooting from the source all the way through my hips, seeping up through my belly and heating the muscles of my thighs. A high, needy whimper bursts from my lips, and already my hips are circling, pushing, searching for that thing again. Peeta's hand pauses, then carefully retraces its path. I roll my head towards him to find his gaze already on me, wide-eyed and alert, aware that he's discovered something. His fingers bump over the bundle of nerves and my whine opens abruptly into a full-throated moan. A grin spreads slowly across his face. Once he locates the epicenter of pleasure, Peeta devotes himself to it. He presses his thumb against it, on and off, rhythmically, until jerky breaths have become the norm. His fingers circle it, lightly, just barely touching it, teasing me endlessly. I let go of his shoulders to pound my fists into the mattress.

And then he begins to add pressure.

"Oh – oh!" I cry.

His thumb is circling, now rubbing, now worshipping the exquisite pearl of flesh with ecstasy-inducing caresses. My hips snap with his movements and my head whips from side to side, mouth open, unable to take in enough air. Peeta is murmuring something to me, but the words get lost on their way to my ears. He shifts his hand, just a degree, and with that new angle, any control I had left leaves me.

"Peeta!" I cry. "Peeta!"

"Katniss," he groans back.

The exchange of names prefaces an increase in tempo, in pressure, that leaves my muscles twitching in ecstasy. Pleasure blossoms in me, unfurling like a glorious flower, crackling as it consumes me. I thought I was somewhat of an expert on flames, having been a Girl on Fire for nearly two years, and then nearly dying from it. Now, I am burning alive again, and I relish every second.

Peeta has to roll on top of me to keep my thrashing body in place. He sucks greedily at first one breast and then the other, no longer gentle but fervent and strong, supporting himself with one forearm braced on the mattress above my head.

The torrent inside me is nearing pain, now – sweet, magnificent pain – and my body is taut as a bowstring, primed to fire. I may snap from the tension, but I can't bring myself to care. All that matters is that Peeta doesn't stop. My world has narrowed to him, his mouth, his hand, his broad chest hovering above me. He begins pumping one finger into me, using his thumb to grind down on the delicate little pebble between my folds, and a great shudder goes through me, seeming to emanate from my very bones. Unrestrained moans pour from my throat, broken only by the occasional utterance of Peeta's name. I'm close, _so_ close, but to what I don't know.

Another shudder.

Somehow, Peeta's words break through the fog. "That's it, Katniss," he pants at my throat. "It's all right. I've got you. Let go."

I shatter. Pleasure spikes in my belly, shooting through the muscles of my vulnerable thighs and bursting like a firecracker throughout my body. It resonates in me like a clap of thunder, but lasting far longer, keeping me arched up off the mattress until the very last.

I drift back to reality an undeterminable amount of time later, pressed tightly to Peeta's chest, lungs heaving. My body is damp with sweat, and a drop of the stuff tickles the skin at my hairline. My injured heel throbs painfully, as if indignant to have been forgotten. My muscles ache and spasm randomly, and the space between my legs is feverish and slick, the flesh quivering and sensitive. I feel marvelous.

Peeta extracts his hand from between us, and it comes away shiny with my silky fluids. Carefully, he moves himself off me and pulls me over to half lie on him. I could hardly resist, even if I wanted to – my limbs are all but useless, heavy as they would be after a long run. I'm cradled to him, and it's a long time before either one of us speaks.

"What," I finally manage weakly, "W-what was that?"

Peeta looks puzzled. "What, you've… You've never climaxed?" He searches my confused eyes, then shakes his head. "No, I suppose you wouldn't, would you? Not if you've never even touched yourself."

I think I should be insulted by that statement, but I'm not. Fatigue creeps through my veins, making it hard to pay attention to what Peeta's saying. I try to hide a yawn against his shoulder. I don't know why I should be so tired.

A soft laugh puffs from Peeta's lips. He strokes my hair, sliding out the tie and separating the sections of the braid, combing through the knots with his fingers. "Go on to sleep, Katniss," he orders softly. "I'll be right here."

I should refuse, but I can't. I crumple against him, melting into the natural heat of his half-clothed body, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and honey and sweat.

A whisper against my cheek. "Just so you know, that was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

I don't have time to interpret the sentence before I fall asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello, my lovelies!**

**Sorry for the confusion that resulted from the teaser. :P There were some quirks I wasn't counting on.**

**Anywho, here's the full chapter (I know, I know - took me long enough).**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

I shouldn't be surprised. The temperatures have been below zero for some time, now. It makes sense that the hot water pipes would fail. Still, the shock of icy water sends me skittering out of the shower with a shriek, shaking drops off my arms and cursing the plumbing with every one of Haymitch's worst swears. My hand gropes for the knob, slamming the water off with a screech and a gurgle from the pipes.

Two knocks on the door. "Katniss? Are you all right?"

"'m okay!" I holler, ripping a towel from the bar to wrap around myself. Tangling my fingers in the absorbent fabric to keep it looped around my body, I open the door.

Peeta raises his eyebrows at the sight of me, wearing nothing but a towel, hair damp and skin pricked with goose bumps.

"Hot water's out," I explain shortly.

"Ah."

Grumbling, I retreat into the bathroom again, sending a harsh glare towards the shower so it knows what it's done. I dress as quickly as is humanly possible. When I emerge, Peeta is waiting beside the window, looking a bit lost with his pajamas still slung over one arm. He would have taken his own shower after me, if the pattern had not been disrupted. "What now?" he asks.

"We heat water on the stove."

I'm already hobbling down the stairs, heel throbbing sharply, and Peeta hurries to catch up with me. His uneven footsteps follow me into the kitchen. "On the stove? Will that be enough?"

I shrug. "It's how we took baths in the Seam."

In the Merchant part of District Twelve, people had real bathtubs, sometimes even showers, albeit less clean and efficient than the ones in the Victors' Village. They washed with delicately scented squares of soap from the apothecary and indulged in warm, clear water to rinse off. In the Seam, you were lucky if you had so much as a makeshift tub to bathe in, let alone clean water. Ours was about three feet in circumference and made from dull, dented tin, handles on each side. It was the same wash bin we scrubbed our clothes in. Dad barely fit in it. His knees stuck out way over the rim and he had to contort his back to squeeze himself into the egg-shaped space. We always took baths in twos – one person to bathe, and one to pour water over them from an old pitcher. Mom and Dad helped each other, and Prim and I took our turn after them. We all used the same water, warmed for each person with a fresh kettle of boiling water.

Grimacing as pain radiates from my bandaged heel, I open my mouth to call for Prim. She can start the water while I find the tub. Maybe she can mix up something to help the cut so I can stop limping. Maybe –

The words stop before they even make it to my lips. They stick in my throat, swelling until they choke me from the inside. Prim isn't here. Prim will never be here again. I stupidly squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the sudden moisture in them to make paths down my cheeks in the form of tears.

But I'm not crying. I'm not.

"Katniss?"

I realize I've stopped dead in the middle of the kitchen, and my feet jerk me forward, towards the pantry. The wash bin should still be hanging by a nail at the back wall. It was what Mom used to transport our possessions to the Victors' Village after the first games, being the largest container we owned at the time. There must be an open jar of pepper nearby, or maybe a cut onion, because the moisture in my eyes refuses to leave. I lift the bin down, stumbling a bit under the unwieldy object, and inch my way backwards out of the pantry. Peeta is hovering beside the table, watching me quietly.

"Katniss?" he says again.

The wash tub hits the floor with a metallic thud and I push it into a corner with my toes, holding a sleeve to my nose. I'm _not _crying.

_Think about something else._

The cold water still works, at least. I fill all the kettles we own and set them on the stove to heat. Peeta wordlessly comes to build up the fire in the middle oven. For the hundredth time, I give a silent prayer of thanks that he refused the Capitol's offer to install electrical ovens. At least if the electricity fails, too, we won't be wanting for light or warmth.

One of the kitchen walls is dominated by no less than three large, pot-bellied, wood-burning stoves. The stovepipes converge beside the fireplace, where they shoot into the bricks and vanish into the structure of the chimney. It's a mirror image of what's in Peeta's own Victors' residence, constructed within a week of his request. Four days after he made the call, a small crew arrived by train to deliver and assemble the two extra stoves. I vanished into the woods the moment they came into view, but Peeta stayed to supervise their work and joke good-naturedly about the abundance of baked goods he would create. He told me afterwards that it was the same crew that came to install the ovens in his own house just after our first Games. After I essentially stabbed him in the heart just beyond the train tracks.

The last kettle clangs onto the stovetop and I push the heels of my hands into my eyes. It seems as if every train of thought leads me to something bad – Prim, Mom, Dad, the Games…

A pair of hands light on my hips. "Maybe you should go rest," Peeta suggests gently. "I think I can finish this. I'll call you down when it's ready."

I wriggle away petulantly, snapping, "I'm fine." And then, because even I can hear the thickness in my voice, "I'm _not_ crying."

"I didn't say you were," he says, but I know he doesn't believe me.

"I'm _not_. It's the onions in the pantry. They're m-making my eyes water." I drag the back of my hand across my face in an angry swipe. My sleeve comes to rest at my nose again and I sniff. Twice. "A-and this st-tupid weather is giving me a c-cold."

I shuffle to the cupboard, intending to brew some tea, only to remember that I used all the kettles to heat bath water. Frustrated now, I kick open a cupboard under the counter and haul out a small pot, filling it with water and fitting it on the last corner of the active stove. My fist closes over a packet of Earl Gray and I fling it into the pot with a small _plop_. The sound of the tea sinking into the water, hissing as little pockets of air escape, is the only noise in the room except for my occasional sniff.

I limp to a chair and lower myself into it, using my hands to lift my heel onto the one opposite me. Peeta pulls up a seat and becomes absorbed in the grain of the wood table.

I sniff, switching sleeves. The tears won't stop, no matter how hard I try, and Peeta still doesn't say a thing. This is what he does. Sometimes, he tries to coax it out of me, using his silver tongue and kind voice to loosen my words. And sometimes he just sits, waiting patiently, knowing I need him near but not pushing anything. He's becoming good at that – reading me. I guess I am, too. I can tell when an episode is bad enough that I need to leave, and when it can be chased away with a few kisses and caresses. Sometimes I sing. We protect each other, just like always.

"Prim," I blurt. "It's Prim. We used to t-take baths together. She should-" A hiccup interrupts my sentence. "B-be here!"

My words end in a wail and Peeta enfolds me in his arms, drawing me from my chair to his, allowing me to cry into his shirt.

Her cornsilk hair. Her giggle. Her small, pale hands, so agile and so skillful at everything she tried. Her smile.

I sob harder.

On the stove, the first kettle begins to scream.

* * *

I don't calm down until the bath is ready. Peeta wraps a quilt around my shoulders and pours me a mug of strong Earl Gray before carefully extracting himself to begin filling the tub. He pours in a bucket of cold water followed by every one of the boiling kettles, then fills them again to start the process over. The cycle repeats itself twice more – bucket, kettles, fill, heat, bucket, kettles, fill, heat – before the small tub is nearly full. By now, my sobs are reduced to hiccups, and I rise shakily. While Peeta tacks up blankets over the kitchen doorways, effectively trapping the steam rising from the tub, I hop to the pantry and pull down a heaping handful of dried herbs. Lavender, chamomile, basil, anything I can think of. Peppermint leaves and calendula join the pile. Mom used to put oatmeal in baths, after we moved to the Village. I add that too. Peeta raises his eyebrows but doesn't question me as I sprinkle the mishmash of fragrant herbs into the bathwater, not bothering to tie them into a sachet. They bob happily on the surface for some moments, then grow heavy with water and sink to the bottom. The steam turns sweet with the essence of earthy plants.

Last, I fetch a pitcher, several towels and a plain cake of soap, setting them beside the tub. We stand awkwardly for a while, unsure what happens next, until Peeta points out that I've forgotten shampoo and slips out of the kitchen.

As soon as he leaves, I lean back against the counter, letting out a breath. When I began heating water for a bath, I never considered how we would handle the actual bathing. Really, you need two people for one person to take a bath in a wash tub. It's possible to wash yourself, but very difficult. The cramped space offers little opportunity for back scrubbing, and pouring water over yourself from a pitcher is hit-or-miss – mostly miss. That's why my family always bathed in pairs. Even after we moved into the Victors' Village, Prim and I occasionally bathed together, out of habit. I remember her blowing bubbles off her palm in the ridiculously large, porcelain tub upstairs.

Sniffling, I shake my head. No use thinking about that now.

I'm busy rewrapping my heel in waterproof bandages when Peeta returns with the shampoo. Along with the bottle, he's brought my nightgown, and he sets both of these on the table.

"I'll just," he says, and gestures vaguely over his shoulder. "I mean, let me know when you're done." He turns, pauses, turns back and says, "Should I start some more kettles?"

I nod. The water will cool between now and the time when his turn comes.

Peeta busies himself with the stove and I push the quilt off my shoulders. It lands on my chair in a crumpled heap. My shirt follows it, and then my pants. The air in the kitchen is warm and damp and smelling of herbs, and it seems to swirl against the skin of my torso and legs. The wood floor, in contrast, is cold, and I suppress a shiver as I approach the tub.

A small sound of surprise emanates from the other side of the room and I know Peeta has turned around. I'm still wearing under things, but I gulp anyway. I can feel his gaze tracing up my legs and back to my braid, which I quickly pull around my shoulder and begin to undo.

Peeta's voice is strange as he says, "I'll be in the living room."

He's just about to pull aside the blanket over the doorway when I turn. "Peeta?"

"Hmm?"

I become fascinated with the ground at my feet. "Will you help me?" I clear my throat and speak again, since the first attempt barely made it past my lips. "Later? Will you help me wash my hair?" I gesture to the wash bin. "It's… difficult, when you're alone."

His eyes soften. "Of course, Katniss. Just let me know when."

I nod and he ducks out of the kitchen.

I wait until the blanket stops swaying before I twist my arms behind me and undo the clasp of my bra. I tuck it, and my panties, between my shirt and pants, then hurriedly cross to the tub and step in. The water laps at my skin as I lower myself in, steam blooming around me in a perfumed cloud. Lavender, mint and chamomile surround me in a comforting veil, soothing my still-itching eyes. I fold myself completely into the tub, thankful for my petite stature, and lean back as best I can against the tin lip.

I know I need to wash quickly and call for Peeta to help with my hair, or else the water will grow cold, but I can't make myself move just yet. I sit with my legs crossed, knees propped up on the edges of the tub, arms trailing in the water. The herbs mix with the lingering scents of Peeta's daily culinary creations, resulting in a heavy, distinctive aroma that threatens to put me to sleep. I tip my head back, letting the ends of my hair fall into the water behind me, and my mind drifts.

Maybe as a sort of defense mechanism, my mind veers away from the dark thoughts that have hung about me since I descended the stairs, instead seeking out something comforting. Something happy. Something pleasurable. Of course, it returns to Peeta, in my bed just yesterday morning. I squirm, glancing towards the covered doorway as if he could sense my thoughts from the living room. But however much my cheeks heat, I can't stop my mind from replaying those moments on a loop. The delicious tug of his lips at my breast. His breath on my neck. His hand… I blush three shades past scarlet. _His hand between my legs._

I remember how he pressed me down into the mattress, how his finger dipped a little ways inside of me, drawing sounds from me I never knew I could make. I remember the little epicenter of pleasure he found between my folds, and how he devoted himself to it, circling and rubbing until –

I'm shocked to find my own hand travelling to the apex of my thighs. Angrily, I jerk it away, sloshing the water in the tub and cursing the weakness of my body. And yet… And yet.

I bite my lip hard and stare at the doorway. The blanket is completely still, not stirred by any current of air. Peeta is in the living room, probably reading or drawing. Every so often, I hear him sigh or clear his throat.

Slowly, so slowly, I allow my hand to drift between my legs. My fingers find my slit, and, heart pounding in fear of being caught, I push through. My own wetness, separate from the bathwater, began to build the moment I thought of what happened in my bed. It takes very little to collect a bit of the slippery juices and bring them to that place Peeta discovered yesterday.

I'm almost disappointed. Almost. My slender fingers don't feel half as good as Peeta's did, though I can't imagine why. But it's hard to be disappointed when I'm enjoying these sensations.

I try to mimic Peeta's motions, pressing at the bundle of nerves with the pad of one finger. Gradually, ticklish waves of pleasure begin to flutter in my belly, occasionally extending through my hips if I hit a particularly wonderful angle. My muscles twitch as the sweet ache feeds on itself, and I'm stuck between wanting to spread my legs wider and wanting to snap them shut. With a sigh that's dangerously close to becoming a moan, I close my eyes. If this is what Peeta meant by touching myself, I understand why he was surprised when I said I didn't. The pressure builds and I find that my left hand has moved itself to my breasts, pinching at the erect nipples. I can feel my pulse in my temples and fingertips, adrenaline mixing with desire. Experimentally, I begin to move faster, and my hips momentarily rock upward. Water washes over the edge of the tub and I freeze, eyes flashing open and fixing on the doorway. The blanket stays in place, and Peeta makes no indication that he heard the splash. But it's enough to snap me out of my haze.

_I should not be doing this. Not here, not now, not ever._

Ashamedly, I remove my fingers from my nether regions, sitting up straight to reach for the soap. I work up a thick lather, scrubbing both of my hands raw, and then give the rest of my body a quick once-over with the suds.

My mind won't shut down, though. Without my consent, it lingers over details of the day. Peeta's scent. His shoulders, his shy smile. Then I think of the moment when I felt his hardness at my thigh, insistent. He told me I didn't need to pay him back, but – well. Old habits die hard. I can't let a debt go unpaid. I _will_ pay him back, and soon.

Only once I've changed positions, bringing my knees together to kneel in the tub rather than sit, do I clear my throat and call, "Peeta?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you help me with my hair?"

There's the sound of paper rustling, and then his footsteps as he approaches the blanket. I take the remaining three seconds before he arrives to turn myself away from the door, presenting him with my shoulders and upper back. Maybe then he won't see the red tint to my face. I feel like he would see it in my eyes, if I looked at him. He would know what I've been up to, and he would be… what, disgusted? Maybe. Probably.

The blanket moves aside with the low sound of fabric against fabric and a slight breath of air, cool in comparison to the steamy kitchen, whispers past me. I don't – can't – turn around.

Peeta's footsteps move to the table, then stop just behind me. The pitcher appears at my side, dipping into the warm water, and bits of herbs swirl in the current it creates. "Close your eyes," Peeta instructs, and I do. Underwater, my hands are shaking. Does he know? Can he tell?

The pitcher lifts, disappearing behind me, and a moment later Peeta's hand is under my chin, tilting my head back as the water pours over my hair. Once more, the pitcher dips underwater, just at my side, then empties itself over me, and Peeta holds out the bottle of shampoo. It almost slips out of my hand when I grab it.

As I squeeze a blob of shampoo into my palm and start to massage it into my hair, my heart rate begins to slow. A chair is dragged across the wood floor with a squeak and Peeta sits down behind me. As I scrub at my head, he dips his hands into the water and begins to pour handfuls over my shoulders, rinsing soap and shampoo from my skin. Even though I'm naked, I'm not as nervous as I could be. From the position we're in, all Peeta is likely to see is my back, and he hasn't made any mention of the dark ring of water around the tub from my unplanned splash. Maybe he can't tell, after all. Maybe I'm making this more complicated than it needs to be.

I finish washing my hair and begin to pull my fingers through the largest of the knots. Peeta takes this as his cue to refill the pitcher. He pours it over my head slowly, giving me time to work the soap out. When the last of the slick shampoo is gone, Peeta offers me a hand. I hesitate, nervous all over again, but then sternly tell myself to get a grip. _He's already seen me naked, anyway,_ I reason, placing my hand in his. He pulls me to my feet, sending streams of water running down my body. Peeta's eyes stay dutifully locked on mine. Herbs stick to my skin, and I have no doubt they're in my hair. I'm brushing at them impatiently when Peeta catches my wrist, stilling my hand.

"Let me."

One last time, the pitcher descends into the cloudy water. It's lukewarm now, and wraps around my limbs like a fluid embrace as Peeta carefully pours. He targets the clumps of herbs and crumbled flower petals until they run down my legs and into the bath. Remnants of soap join them, the suds clinging to my calves at the waterline. I notice he pays special attention to my chest, though barely any bubbles have gathered there.

At last, the final drops fall from the pitcher's rim and Peeta sets it back on the table. I step out onto the towel he lays down and go about drying myself. I'm in such a hurry that patches of my skin are still damp when I yank my nightgown over my head. I coil my dripping hair into a haphazard bun at the crown of my head, securing it with two pencils I find on the table. Then, for the first time since he entered the kitchen, Peeta and I face each other.

I glance regretfully at the tepid, soapy water. "I can pour it out and heat up another tub," I offer weakly, knowing it will take longer than either one of us is likely to wait.

Peeta shakes his head. "No. I can deal with a little soap." He flashes me that crooked grin of his and I offer a small smile in return.

While Peeta undresses, I warm the bath – _his_ bath now, I realize – with the kettles that have been sitting at the back of the stove since I climbed into my own. In an effort to freshen the water, even by a little bit, I scoop out several large pitchers and toss them down the sink before adding the new batch of hot water. At least it's not so cloudy now. As an afterthought, I go to the pantry and retrieve another, smaller handful of mint and lavender. This time I make the effort to find a small bag of cheesecloth to put them in. It hits the water with a happy splash and sinks almost immediately to the bottom.

What next? Tea. Peeta gave me tea before my bath. I should give him some before his. The Earl Gray is cold now, and bitter-strong besides, so I restart the pot with what I remember to be Peeta's favorite: chamomile, splashed with cream but untouched by sugar. I frown down at the brewing pot. If there's tea, there should rightfully be something to go with it. I dig in the pantry for a bit before producing a small box of plain lemon shortbread, imported from the Capitol. They're dry, and not nearly as good as Peeta's baking, but it's the best I can do on short notice. To make up for my incompetence, I arrange four of the cookies on a small plate and set them on the table, within arm's reach of the tub. The pot is steaming, now, and I deftly put together a passable cup of chamomile tea to set beside the cookies. There.

I turn to find Peeta, sitting at the edge of a chair, halfway through extracting his prosthetic from his pant leg. He's looking at me with something I can only describe as awe. It's an expression that I've seen more often on pre-Games Peeta than post-Games Peeta, and I wonder what brought it on. Did one of the scents or sounds in the room trigger a random memory?

He won't stop gaping at me, and I'm beginning to think I've done something wrong.

"What?" I say, a defensive edge making the word more forceful than I intended.

His answer is quiet, and yet his voice strains as if he's yelling. "You didn't have to do that, you know."

"What? Warm your bath?"

He opens and closes his mouth several times, then shakes his head. "You don't know, do you?"

"What?" I ask again, and this time I'm definitely irked. What am I not seeing? What is he suggesting? That I'm an idiot for missing something that's completely obvious? I can almost feel myself puff up, like a scrawny alley cat defending its territory against a bear. The image is pathetic. Laughable. "If there's something you'd like to say, spit it out."

He tries to stand, only to get caught on the pant leg that still clings to one calf. I go to him and deftly pull it away, draping the trousers on the back of his chair. Before I can move away again, he traps my hands in his and begins peppering them with kisses. His lips grace my palms, fingers, wrists. I flush to think of what those hands were doing just minutes ago. If Peeta knew, would he still kiss them?

"What?" I say for a third time.

"You," he replies hoarsely. "You made me tea. And cookies. And warmed my bath."

My answer is halting. "Of – course." Is that all? These simple acts, which pale in comparison to what Peeta has done for me?

He gives a small sniffle and tries to disguise it as a cough, but I know better. It's been an emotional evening for both of us. First me, with Prim, and now Peeta. Maybe he was looking through our memory book in the living room, and that's why he's suddenly so sensitive to my pitiful offerings. Yes, that's probably it. I can relate. There have been days where I read our book and come away bawling over something as simple as a flower or a mitten.

I gently draw one hand from his grip and begin to rub his back. He already removed his shirt, so my palm slides over bare skin. He tugs me forward so he can rest his forehead just below my collar bone, riding out the rest of his sniffles by holding onto me. Outside, the wind gusts against the house, sending loose shingles rattling. Snow hisses against the window. The fire snaps.

Peeta calms after some minutes, and I tell him he should get in the bath before it gets cold.

He nods. I step away and am about to leave the room when he calls me back.

"Will you…?" He gestures towards the shiny metal and plastic of his prosthetic. He gives a tense smile. "I'm not supposed to wear it while bathing, and… It's difficult when you're alone."

So our places are well and truly reversed now.

I nod and return to kneel between his feet. His eyes go wide, and I halt. "What's wrong?"

He shakes his head, swallows with a dry sound and waves me on.

Puzzled, I reach for the clasps that secure the fake limb to flesh. It connects just below his knee. I've never taken it off for him before, but I've watched him undo the clasps plenty of times before he closes the bathroom door to take a shower. Sometimes, on days where it aches especially badly, he takes it off to sleep. I don't often see him without it. I ease the fake limb off, setting it aside, and then reach for the sock. It's supposed to act as a barrier between the prosthetic and the sensitive skin where his leg ends, to minimize rubbing. But I can see that it's been bothering him lately. He needs to get it refitted. The skin is red and swollen from the constant irritation. I give a small, unhappy sound as I roll off the sock and place a feather-light kiss at his knee.

"You shouldn't stand so much," I say sternly. "Give it a rest sometime. You're not doing yourself any favors by pacing constantly."

Peeta mock-salutes. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Oh, get in your bath," I say, flicking a hand at him dismissively.

He grins and lifts his hips, hooking his thumbs over the waistband of his boxers. I realize just in time and spin away, face flaming.

"I still don't see how you can be bothered by this after everything," he chuckles.

I grunt and pointedly look elsewhere while I offer him an arm. He leans on me to for the three feet to the tub, then braces his arms on the table to quickly hop into the water. I hold onto his forearms for leverage as he lowers himself into the tub.

"This is why I usually take showers," he explains apologetically. "Hard to get into baths. Hard to get out."

"I'll help," I say as I move towards the door. "Just call me."

Before the blanket swings back over the doorway, I hear him say, "I know."

* * *

"I love your hair, Katniss."

I shiver.

Peeta's words are whispers against my neck, his lips moving at my earlobe. His real leg curls around one of mine, while the prosthetic stretches out in front of us, stiff toes pointed towards the fireplace. I hook my fingers around my ankles to keep myself sitting up. I realize that this position – criss-cross-applesauce, I once heard Annie call it – leaves me with my thighs parted wide, knees pointed in opposite directions, even while my feet press together at the soles. Perhaps Peeta intended this. My legs form a cradle, swathed in the welcome weight of a bulky quilt, my lower half kept warm by fire-warmed wool. My upper half is kept warm by Peeta. His right forearm presses firmly just under my ribs, keeping me in place while his left hand goes to work.

Even through the thick flannel of my nightgown, cold rivulets of water drip from the ends of my hair and onto my skin. I'm sure my back is puckered in gooseflesh under the damp fabric. The hair on my arms stands up, although it's not from the water. It's from the comb. Peeta drags it through sections of my dripping hair, brushing out snarls with his unfailing patience. The sharp pulls and muttered _sorry_'s gradually abate as he works through the knots, and after many minutes, the comb slides down my neck and back with little resistance. Peeta's actions slow, and I'm disappointed; I don't want this unexpected luxury to end. The feel of the comb's teeth against my scalp sends tingling shivers spreading down my spine and through my skull. It's a calming, almost pleasurable sensation. I want it to last.

"I've always loved your hair," Peeta continues in an undertone. "Ever since you wore it in two braids and tied it with red ribbons."

The slight vibration of his voice touches the skin behind my ear and I sigh contentedly.

"I love it in one braid, too. Like a rope of silk."

He's rambling now, almost nonsensically, like he does when he's trying to calm me down after a relapse. Not talking about anything important, really, just… talking. I do it, too, sometimes. Ramble. I'll look up and realize that I've been speaking to an empty room, narrating my own actions or telling the furniture about my day. It's the flip-side of the weeks when I don't speak a word to anyone or anything. Doctor Aurelius assures me it's perfectly normal, but it annoys me. I used to be able to keep my thoughts inside my head so easily. Now, I find myself blurting secrets to the ottoman. It's infuriating.

Peeta, on the other hand, seems to enjoy it. I'll walk in on him gently instructing the walls about the technicalities of mixing oil paints, smiling all the while. Or, sometimes he'll talk to me, out of habit, speaking without actually _saying_ anything. Like, it seems, now.

"I love the color." The comb drags across my hairline, just enough to make my skin prickle pleasantly. "I love everything about it."

A small sound of resignation escapes me as the comb disappears. It's over, then. I move to sit up, but Peeta surprises me by tightening the muscled band of his right arm, anchoring me to him. "But I especially love _this._"

And then his hands are in my hair, fingers tangling themselves in the damp locks, tugging with just the right intensity to send shocks of those tingling shivers cascading though my upper body. I shudder involuntarily as his fingers rub strands of my hair together, combing through them, arranging them this way and that. His fingernails just barely scratch my scalp, and that's all it takes to pull a small moan from me.

His lips are at my earlobe again. A knowing whisper, barely more than a breath, but not concealing his almost-smirk.

"I know. I like it, too."

His right hand begins to inch under the hem of my nightgown.

But I remember my decision in the bath, and the word bursts from my mouth.

"Wait!" I twist onto my knees, spinning to face him so that I'm kneeling in the gap between his bent legs. His face shows a flash of hurt, and I stumble over my words to reassure him. "I want – I mean – I want to do something for you. Too." I recall his words from a day ago. "I want to make you feel good."

Peeta's jaw falls slack, then tightens with an indecipherable expression. His lips say the same thing they did last time: "You don't need to." But his eyes give him away. Dark and hungry, they stare into mine, conveying a longing that burns my skin wherever it touches. I suddenly understand why Peeta was so eager to give me pleasure and deny his own – the silent yearning in his gaze urges me on, makes me push aside my own needs. My fingers twitch, palms itching for motion, but _what_ motion? I do want to make him feel good. I just don't know how.

Instead of using the words I know I'll trip on, I lean forward, using the height of my kneeling position to hover my face over his. He tips his head back to meet my lips, and I sigh. This, at least, is something I can do. We kiss, and though my lips move fluently with his, I'm on autopilot. How am I going to accomplish this? I'm no seductress, that's for damn sure. I don't know how to please a man. I've never even thought of it, before now. But I do know Peeta. I know how he reacts to certain things. How he sighs when I push my fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. How he likes to hold my hips or cradle me on his lap.

So I use what I know.

My fingers tremble as I reach for the hem of Peeta's shirt. I pull it up just an inch, then lean back to gauge his reaction. His pink tongue darts out to wet his lips. Those pleading eyes, the deep cobalt blue of late evening, stare into mine. My hands move and the shirt rolls up his back and over his head.

Peeta opens his mouth to say something, but I won't let him. I close in again, drawing his lower lip between mine, worrying it with my teeth. Under my palms, I feel the tension drain out of the muscles in his back. His sigh passes through his mouth and into mine. A touch at my spine, and then at my neck, and then Peeta has his fingers in my hair again. The pleasurable shivers drizzle down my body and my back arches in response, unintentionally pressing my breasts against his bare chest. He groans.

I squirm backwards, trying to kick away the quilt that's tangled around my legs. Peeta follows me, searching for my lips, and without either of us quite meaning to we end up lying down, hips-to-hips and chest-to-chest, Peeta's weight keeping me pinned against the dusty living room carpet. I can't say I don't enjoy this new development, but it won't do. How am I supposed to… _attend_ to him like this?

"Sit up," I order, my voice a thin gasp.

Almost reluctantly, Peeta does as I say, and I push myself up on my elbows to look at him. His hair is mussed up, his ribs rise and fall with deep, rapid breaths and his lips are flushed and shiny with a sheen of saliva. But his gaze is tense and his hands fist in the fabric of the discarded quilt. He's just as nervous as I am.

I bow my lips into my mouth to wet them. My swallow is dry. "Is this okay?"

His chin dips, and I guess it's a nod.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach for the waistband of his pajama pants. Obligingly, he lifts his hips, and I'm reminded of when he stripped down in the kitchen. Now, just like then, I look away, choosing a spot over his shoulder to focus on while he helps me tug the pants down over his thighs, knees, feet. I fold the pants, smoothing them unnecessarily to give my hands something to do.

"You can look, you know," Peeta says quietly. "I don't mind."

_I do,_ I think, but then I inwardly scowl at myself. I started this whole venture so I could bring Peeta the same kind of pleasure he brought me. If I'm going to do that, I'm going to have to look eventually. But I can't make myself do it. _Coward,_ a voice whispers in my head.

It's that voice that ends up pushing me to look. I take one glance and look away just as quickly, blushing all the way down my neck and into my chest. All I can think is, _How is he supposed to… fit?_

I can't look down, and I can't look in his eyes, so I look at my own hands, now resting on Peeta's shoulders. "I don't know how to do this," I admit.

One of his hands comes up to stroke my cheek. Comforting me, even now, when I can see the effect this is having on him in my peripheral vision. "You don't – " he begins, but I cut him off.

"You did it for me."

"Don't do this to pay a debt."

I startle at his sharp tone of voice, my eyes darting to his.

"Don't," he says again, more gently this time. "You don't owe me anything. Anything at all. I like touching you. It's not like it's a chore."

For the second time, I shiver. I remember what he's referring to all too well. That space between my thighs pulses hopefully and I sternly remind myself that tonight is about Peeta. Not me.

"I want to," I maintain. I can see Peeta's thoughts forming behind his eyes, rolling around in his mind, and I know that if I allow him to keep talking, he'll convince me to give up my cause. Sweet, altruistic Peeta. But then a thought hits me that has me withdrawing, flinching as if I've been stung. "Unless you don't want me to," I whisper.

It's so obvious, suddenly. Peeta's gentle insistence, his methods of distraction, his tense smiles. Of course he doesn't want me. Why would he? I myself admitted that I don't know what I'm doing, and besides, I'm far from desirable. Peeta and his golden heart will touch me, for my own benefit, but he cannot want me. The realization leaves a bitter taste in my throat.

"Katniss, what are you talking about?"

I shake my head. I won't cry, I won't cry, I _won't_ cry. Not again. Not over this.

"Katniss, please look at me."

Peeta is trying to drag my face up, but I won't meet his eyes. I feel his long sigh against my cheek, and then his lips land at the corner of my mouth. He speaks against my skin in an almost-kiss. "You don't know how much I want you to," he breathes. "God, I want you to. I want _you_. But I don't…" He takes a shuddering breath. "I don't want you to feel obligated."

Abruptly, fire fills me. I can't tell if it's stubbornness, desire, frustration or some other emotion that guides me. All I know is that suddenly my hand is moving, and then there's hot, smooth skin against my palm and Peeta's noise of surprise is in my ear. His nose slides along my cheekbone and his head comes to rest beside mine, his body shaking. I go by feel, loosely wrapping my fingers around the shaft. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. I can feel blood pulse in a vein. The skin is delicate, so delicate I'm afraid of hurting him, but the flesh beneath is firm and hot as flames.

"Help me," I plead, and not a moment later, Peeta's large hand lands atop my small one. He tightens our grip, and I'm surprised at the amount of pressure we exert. Shouldn't this hurt? Apparently not. Judging by the soft bursts of breath at my ear, it's just the opposite. He begins to drag our hands upwards, towards the tip, and then back down. My knuckles bump against the skin of his stomach before our hands begin their journey up again. Steadily, under his guidance, we increase the speed, and Peeta's free hand digs into my waist. The pants at my ear are thickened with short groans, and just as I think I've got the hang of it, Peeta's guiding hand disappears. I glance at him uncertainly. He nods encouragement and I carefully take up the rhythm by myself.

At the first pump of my small fist, I feel a shudder rise through Peeta's body. The grip he has on my waist is almost painful, but I find I don't care. His small cries of pleasure seem to shoot straight to my core, kindling a wet heat there. I feel powerful – beautiful. With a simple touch, I have control over him, and he doesn't fight. He hands himself over willingly, shaking and releasing my name in short syllables.

And then, accidentally, my hand rises too far and my thumb bumps over the weeping mushroom-cap head. Peeta's pants elongate into a low moan, and his hips rise and fall in a jerky motion. Cautiously, I repeat the action.

"Katniss," Peeta huffs, and the motion of his hips falls into a steady pulse. Up, down, up. It takes me a few tries, but at last I'm able to match my motions to it. My own hips are moving, too, circling in search of relief. I drop my head and begin planting small, sucking kisses up and down his throat, my tongue flicking out to taste him. Salt-sweat and spices and lavender. I imagine I would taste the same. We did, after all, share the same bathwater. For reasons beyond my comprehension, this thought sends a sharp pang through my breasts and between my thighs.

Without warning, Peeta tenses, sobs my name and then goes still. He grows soft under my palm and I quickly release him, cradling the back of his head as he regains composure. He slumps against me, spent, and I remember how exhausted I was after he touched me. If our experiences are the least bit similar, he'll have no trouble sleeping tonight.

The first move Peeta makes is to fish for his shirt, which he uses to sop up a pearly liquid I didn't notice before. It must have come from him, I realize. I flush all over again. He then balls up the shirt and tosses it aside before drawing me close. I rest my forehead on his damp, heaving chest, suddenly shy.

"I hope that was okay," I whisper.

Peeta gives a hoarse bark of laughter. "Okay?" Above me, I feel his head shake.

I burrow into his chest in embarrassment. "I know I'm not good at –"

"It was perfect." He pulls me up to face him. "You don't realize how wonderful you are, do you?"

I have no response for that, so I just gnaw on my lip and shrug.

After a few moments, Peeta finds his pants and pulls them back on, and we make our way bashfully up the stairs. I scrub my teeth and dive into bed in record time. Peeta takes his turn in the bathroom and I pretend to be asleep as he emerges to join me so we don't have to talk about what happened. Before he settles down, Peeta presses a warm kiss to my temple and breathes, "Thank you."

As Peeta's breath evens out beside me, I bite my lower lip and press my thighs together, ignoring the throbbing that refuses to leave. My body cries out for attention, but I can't, I _can't_ touch myself here, with Peeta pressed up against me, his arm looped over my waist. His grunts, groans, whispers of my name loop in my head, and I know I won't be able to sleep any time soon.

Outside, the wind wails shrilly, as if laughing at me. I stuff a pillow over my head to block it out, but I can still hear Peeta's voice echoing in my mind.

* * *

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